I can still see us
together
back then
sitting by the river
while shit-
faced on the
grape
and playing with the
poem
knowing it to be
utterly useless
but something to
do
while
waiting

the Emperors
with their frightened
clay faces
watch as we
drink

Li Po crumbles his
poems
sets them on
fire
floats them down the
river.

“what have you
done?” I
ask him.
Li passes the
bottle: “they are
going to end
no matter what
happens…”

I drink to his
knowledge
pass the bottle
back

sit tightly upon my
poems
which I have
jammed halfway up my
crotch

I help him burn
some more of his
poesy

they float well
down
the river
lighting up the
night
as good words
should.